


WK: The Moments In-Between

by Pondfrost (AkitsuneLune)



Series: Warriors Kingdoms [6]
Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Alderheart's a blink n you'll miss it, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cute halloween couple activities beating the shit out of each other, Dick Jokes, Established Relationship, F/M, Fallenstar's Night is Hallowe'en basically, Firestar can talk to people and not recover from gut punches fast enough, First Kiss, Flirting, Halloween Costumes, Mildly Suggestive, Mistaken Identity, One-Shots, Sandstorm's ambidextrous and significantly more awkward at parties, Swearing, faceplanting into cheesecake, fantasy!au, human!AU, mostly dick jokes tbh, one-shot book, preventing a murder, swords as euphemisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitsuneLune/pseuds/Pondfrost
Summary: Taking one-shot requests on the warriors-kingdoms tumblr! Self-contained short fics. You don't need to have read the AU to follow along! T for mildly suggestive flirting. 1: A chance meeting on an otherwise-typical day sets up an out-of-control romance. 2: Busywork turns into stopping the assassination by a handsome stranger
Relationships: Bluefur/Oakheart (Warriors), Firestar/Sandstorm (Warriors), Referenced Snowfur/Thistleclaw (Warriors)
Series: Warriors Kingdoms [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617727
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I put in the summary, I'm taking requests for one-shots over on warriors-kingdoms.tumblr.com and someone asked for some Blue/Oak flirting! Added angst at the very end because I couldn't stop myself... This was brought to you by early 2010s pop

“I’m not buying you that,” I tell Lowd, glancing at the entrance of the store. We’re losing daylight, and we still have to hit up another three stores before we meet back in the city square with Timaber.

My squire puts down his green mug with a huff. “But it keeps your drinks hotter for longer!”

“That’s bull-sh—I mean, _put it down_.” After training Lowd for a year, I still haven’t broken my habit of cursing in front of him. Oh, well—the kid might as well learn it some time. I was saying worse at thirteen. “We’re wasting time.”

I crane my neck impatiently. _Is this line moving?_ I had promised Lowd we could detour into the trade fair, but if this takes too long— _Oh, wait a minute._

I reach up to quickly smooth my chestnut waves down, already peeling away from Lowd’s side.

“Where are you going?” he exclaims.

“You can handle yourself,” I toss over my shoulder as I beeline for the woman perusing the store’s shelves. Her profile is framed perfectly against the background hum; straight nose, brown cheeks, and a waterfall of gray hair spilling out from her cloak’s hood. More masculine than I usually go for, but there’s something magnetic about her already, I can tell, and I’m _really_ curious about what’s hiding under those layers. _It’s almost summer, why is she wearing all those_ clothes _?_

Putting on my most charming smile, I touch her arm. “Hey! I haven’t seen you around here.”

“I don’t doubt that,” she replies without turning, studying the array of silverware. “Rivier’s little _occupation_ means we haven’t been around much.”

_Huh? Oh, is she visiting family from a village in Thundria?_ “Trust me, Rivien knights can offer a lot that Thundrians can’t.” She doesn’t take the bait. I begin to falter. _Am I just harassing some random villager woman now? If she would look at me…_ “What’s your name?”

“What’s it to you?” Despite the words, her tone is mild as she continues her examination of the shelf, picking up a gleaming butter knife with slender fingers and turning it over in her brown hands. _Calluses,_ I notice. _Used to hard labour?_ She’s probably fit, then, and again, not usually what I go for. _Okay, this was a waste of time._

“Just a guy asking for a pretty girl’s name,” I say innocently, holding up my hands. Swift as a lightning bolt, she grabs my right wrist. I jerk back instinctively, but her grip is vise-like. She’s finally turned, staring at my palm. _A little forward, but alright, now we’re getting somewhere._

“You row.” It’s an accusation, though I can’t fathom why.

“Yeah.” Finally, now the game can start. “Got _lots_ of big muscles from it, trust me. It’s a great…”

Every word I ever learned, every trick and gesture immediately flees when I catch her gaze. _The sea,_ is the most my brain can form. I can’t tell if her eyes are grey, or blue, or even green, but they catch the torchlight of the store like gemstones, flashing, as she stares me down with a contemptuous look.

“I…” I swallow as I fight the urge to backpedal and run off, but I can’t blink or look away. Her gaze commands attention. “You’re…”

I manage to close my mouth before I say something _really_ embarrassing, and then she quirks a gray brow and the spell is broken.

“I’m what?” she asks, finally letting my wrist drop back to my side and she crosses her arms.

I can feel my wrist tingling and resist the impulse to rub it to make sure she didn’t leave some kind of enchantment there. “You’re gorgeous.” _I mean, if she can do that just by grabbing my wrist…_

She tips her head. “My mother was beautiful and my father is handsome. Something was inherited, obviously.”

_Cocky!_ I grin at the discovery. She looks me up and down, blatantly unimpressed, and I lean against the wooden shelf, crossing my legs idly in an attempt to improve my silhouette. _C’mon, don’t you think I’m handsome?_ “My parents were good-looking, too.” _Too bad about the inside._

Again, she ignores the bait. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re familiar. Have I seen you somewhere before?”

“Your dreams?”

She snorts, then claps her hands over her mouth like the sound snuck out against her orders and scowls. _Aha! She doesn’t have a heart of ice, after all._

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” she says, schooling her features back into disinterest.

“I’ve never seen _you_ before, which is a tragedy,” I declare, tipping my head a little to make some copper curls fall in my face so I can sweep them back in a practiced gesture.

Her eyes flicker as they follow the movement and I fight another confident smile.

“I’m sure. Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll be seeing much more of each other,” she replies, gaze moving to something distant over my shoulder.

“Why not?” I’m nonplussed— _This was going well!_

She merely points, and I turn to see Lowd waving at me in an attempt to get my attention, looking panicked; he’s standing by the cash, and I suddenly feel the silver in my pocket weighing heavily.

“Fuck!”

Another brow-quirk at my outburst, then she goes back to ignoring me while I run back to save Lowd. I pay quickly, then usher my squire out the door.

“Tell Sir Faire that Dillon’s making trouble again,” I whisper to Lowd, then push him into the street. _That should buy me a couple hours, anyway. More, if Timaber decides to head back without me._

Lowd’s protest is cut off when the store’s door swings shut and I move through the crowd, back toward the silverware shelf. _Where is she?_ I catch an appreciative glance from a young, plump villager woman, and despite how I’d usually immediately switch targets, I can’t help wanting to find the first woman. _She didn’t even tell me her name! This is just like that one stupid elder’s tale._

I don’t have a glove to fit on everyone’s hand, though.

I resort to fruitlessly scanning the milling villagers, hoping to catch a sight of a browner face or gray hair. _Or sea-eyes. Shut up, Oeak!_

“Just as I suspected.”

My heart jumps at the low rasp of her voice, and I whip around, already reaching for another clever line to use. The cloak’s gone, is the first thing I notice, leaving in its place a _much_ more form-fitting green— _Thundrian_ uniform.

“Dumbass,” I breathe. Thank the Starlaxi, she doesn’t catch it, just closes the short distance between us and grabs the edges of my gray coat and pulls it apart—so hard she nearly rips the seams—to reveal the Rivien raindrop on my vest’s buttons. Despite the sudden shift in situations, I can’t help grinning. “Don’t tear my clothes off _here_ , we’re in public.”

I can’t tell if her cheeks redden, but her voice is slightly more strained as she answers, “Shut up! What were you doing? I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“You’re on our territory,” I point out. _That explains the magnetism. But what Thundrian has a right to have eyes like that?! Trying to steal the sea from us, too, are you?_ “Village of the Sun Rocks is ours.”

“Debatable,” she huffs.

“But don’t debate it with me, or I’ll infect you with evil other-kingdom-ness,” I warn her, unable to help a little teasing.

She releases a derisive snort, and my stupid brain is already trying to figure out how to turn this flirty.

“Just kidding, it’s only transmitted through mouth-to-mouth contact.”

She stares. “Are you for real? That’s treasonous!”

“It’s definitely not.” A laugh escapes before I can think better of it, and sure enough, more annoyance flares in her eyes. _Great, I got stuck with a goody-two-shoes._ “Having fun isn’t banned, you know.”

“ _That_ kind of fun is,” she snaps and I crow, delighted. _Not prudish, though._

“Only if it turns into a _situation_ ,” I remind her. “Nobody ever said anything about occasionally _happening_ to be in the same village and spending an evening in the same inn, in the same room, in the same—”

“It’s not allowed! And besides, you’re so arrogant that you’d be far from my first pick for a little code-breaking anyway.” Her eyes flash.

_Wounded!_ But I play it off with another cocksure grin. “Whoa, who said anything about us? I don’t even know your name, aren’t you moving a little fast?”

She folds her arms and fixes an infinitely skeptical look on me. “Yeah, your thoughts were purer than a child of the Starlaxi. I’m Sir Fajr.”

_Huh?_ “Okay, one, didn’t know you were a dude but I’m definitely still down, and two, no first name?”

‘Sir Fajr’ pokes my arm. “You shouldn’t be ‘down’ for anything. And I’m _not_ a man, but I’m not exactly a lady of the court, either.”

I resist the crude comment that lands on my tongue narrowly. _That explains it._ It hadn’t even occurred to me that she might be from Thundria, since that would mean she’d be a solitary woman on a supply run, which isn’t common in Rivier and from what I know, is completely off the table in Thundria.

“And finally, of _course_ I’m not going to tell you my first name. You’re an enemy, and I don’t want to reveal my life-force,” she declares stiffly.

“Trust me, I’m seconds away from whipping out _Oakheart,_ ” I tell her, patting the hilt of the sword at my side lovingly. She flushes at the innuendo, then her brows raise.

“Oak,” she says. “Named for your life-force, are you? Wood elementalism?”

I nod, then spread my arms as much as I can without getting in the way of the other people in the store. “I’m an open book, baby. Ask me whatever you wanna know.”

“Greatest weakness? Is Rivier planning an attack on our borders? How’s the state of the kingdom? Any coups that we could support for a more favourable leader? And what’s your brother up to lately?”

My head reels from the questions she fires off, but the last one catches my attention. “What? You know Crukked?”

“‘Course,” she answers, altogether too pleased to catch me off guard. “We’re friends. He’s a lot more bearable than you are.”

I snort. “As if! Besides, I’m far more good-looking, and that’s what really matters.”

She scoffs. “You are _so_ full of yourself!” Then she grabs both sides of my head. My heart jumps. _Blessed Starlaxi! What is she doing? In the middle of the store? What if Lowd sees?_

But she just presses her palms to the sides of my head in a gentle squeeze, a look of concentration screwing up her features.

“What… are you doing?” I ask, trying not to giggle.

“Pushing your head back down to size,” she answers, perfectly serious. “Because it’s too big.”

“Do you know what _else—_ ”

“Shut up.”

She lets go of my head and sighs. “There’s no hope, I’m afraid.”

“Accept me for who I am!” I exclaim, smoothing my hair back down where she crumpled it. I can still feel the ghost of where her arms were, cradling my head. “You won’t regret it.”

“Oak,” she tests out.

“Oeak,” I correct, drawing it out into almost-two syllables. _Ohwick._

“What can you do with your wood-summoning?” I wonder if it’s another joking attempt to get dirt on Rivier, but her gaze is serious.

“ _Well_ —” I begin.

“Never mind,” she snorts. “Is there more under there than just dirty jokes, or is it sex all the way down?”

_All the way down?_ But I have a feeling answering that with another dirty joke would give her an answer I don’t want to give. “No! Of course there’s _more_ to me. Want to hear about my childhood trauma?”  
“I held my mother while she died,” she counters.

“I wish that was me,” I groan. “My mom’s a witch.”

“I fought with my mom while she was alive,” Sir Fajr mumbles. “Don’t write her off so fast.”

“She disowned Crukked because of his jaw.”

“Oh, fuck her.”

I can’t help a laugh at the immediate flip, and nod. “You’re not wrong. Sorry about your mom.”

She grunts. “It was a long time ago.”

“Still hurts.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about yours,” she offers.

“Yeah, uh… maybe don’t tell Crukked that I told you all that,” I say, a prickling feeling on my back alerting me to the red flush creeping up my neck. _What are you doing, talking about her in front of a bunch of villagers?_ “It’s kind of personal.”

“Don’t talk to my sister about our mother either,” she says when the silence lingers. “Well, don’t talk to my sister, period. She’d fall for you in like eight seconds and she doesn’t stick to the code as much as I do.”

“She must have good taste!” I answer, trying to move us back to a comfortably-teasing place. I’m a little lost as to how we veered from innocent flirting to talking about our mothers and family secrets.

Sir Fajr folds her arms. “ _Terrible_ taste. She fawns over arrogant pricks.”

“Like I said, good taste.”

She finally smiles. I don’t think she’s escaped a general region of annoyance, disgust, shock, and embarrassment throughout out conversation, but when she smiles… I feel like I’m trying to stay upright on deck in the middle of a storm. _Careful, Oeak._ Her eyes gleam like stars.

“I’ll promise to stay away from your sister,” I begin.

“If?” she asks, the skeptical twist of her lips letting me know that she already knows there’s a catch.

I consider that. _What wouldn’t be too far, but would… well, keep this going?_ “Just answer one question honestly.”

She raises an eyebrow. That heart-stopping smile still tugs at the corner of her mouth, and I’m almost scared to provoke another one.

“Do you really not find me handsome? At all?”

I know I’m shallow, but it’s a Rivien trait, apparently. As far as I’m concerned, the Starlaxi blessed me with a pretty face and I’m just honouring them by using it to its full effect. I really, _really_ want to know that I’m not the only one floundering here.

“You’re asking me if you’re good-looking?” she asks, exasperation chasing away the last rays of her smile. I should be relieved. I’m not.

“Well, I—no, I’m asking if _you_ think I’m good-looking,” I press.

“You could ask _anything_ , and you went with that.”

“Alright, then—”

“Wait, I’ll answer.” She must’ve seen the glitter in my eye. _Was she hoping for something more? I can definitely push it further._ “Of course you’re handsome. Don’t they have mirrors on that oversized boat of yours?”

“It’s a _galleon_ ,” I answer, affronted. “And you didn’t answer my question! I asked if you find me handsome.”

She frowns. “I _did_ answer.”

“You didn’t,” I counter. “You said I was handsome. But you didn’t say that you think I’m handsome.”

“If I’m saying it, don’t you think it’s what I think?” she scoffs.

“Is your sister pretty?”

She punches my arm, hard enough to hurt. I gasp.

“Ouch! That was our deal!”

I see a flicker in her eye, like she’s doubting what’s even going on. I jump in to distract her.

“Please?” I wheedle. “Just say ‘Oeak, I find you very handsome.’ Actually, ‘sexy’ is preferable. Or ‘jaw-droppingly—’”

“Fine.” Her mouth purses and a competitive spark flares in her sea-eyes. “You want to play _that_ game? You’re really, _really_ handsome. I’d run my hand through your hair if we weren’t in front of a dozen villagers. You’re so pale you look sickly, but you smell like the sea. Your eyes are hard to look away from, and that rowing’s done a lot for your arms. But you know what I think? I think you know all of that. I didn’t miss that little move with the hair-flick. Nice arms and shiny hair won’t distract me from the fact that your ego is the size of the Rivien sea.”

_Shit,_ is all I can think, then try to laugh it off. “Well, I’m very humble. I haven’t looked into a mirror in years.”

“What was the point of that little stunt?” she presses. “Just to try to embarrass me?”

Even if I was, it’s failed spectacularly; _she_ looks defiant and _my_ heart is racing. “No. I just… want to know what you think of me.”

“What I think of your _face_?” she shoots back.

I shrug. “It’s half of who I am.”

“That’s inaccurate.” Then she leans a little closer, eyes searching my face. _I’m blushing, aren’t I? This is going very badly_. “You hate your mother because of what she did to your brother. Not you.”

“Any half-decent brother wouldn’t let _anyone_ talk about their brother that way,” I snap back, surprising even myself. Sir Fajr isn’t surprised, though. Far from it, she looks satisfied.

“I knew it. Family’s important to you, isn’t it?”

“ _Your_ family is, if your sister’s pretty.” I try to derail her, but her intense look doesn’t falter.

“Why are you here? Why are you chasing villager girls?” she asks. I don’t really have an answer at the best of times, and it’s doubly difficult when that gaze is fixed on me. “Bored? Trying to avoid something at court? Lonely? Addicted?”

I try to swallow but my throat’s dry.

Then she catches herself and pulls away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… sorry. It’s really none of my business. We shouldn’t be—forget it.”

“No!” I catch her arm. She turns back, and I finally notice that she’s nearly taller than me. _Fuckin’ Thundrians, I swear._ “Wait. Don’t go.”

She gives me an incredulous stare. “This is a mistake, Oeak. We’ll end up on opposite sides of a battle.”

“No, His Majesty is working on a truce,” I say desperately.

“You just told me a court secret!” she exclaims.

“I don’t care,” I say, made reckless as she tries to extricate herself. “I told you, it’s not against any rules. I’ve done it before.”

“That’s _worse!_ ” She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re doing. We’ll destroy each other.”

She gestures vaguely at the villagers around us, and I’m suddenly very aware we’re in public. _If Timaber comes back to deal with Dillon…_ I take her arm and move with her, backward in a secluded aisle. A very old man gives us a disapproving look, then carries on.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I chide. “It doesn’t need to mean anything, does it?”

“You heard me,” she snaps, looking distressed. She’s lowered her voice, which is good, except _no_ , it’s not, because now her tone is low and husky and she’s closer than ever, gaze intense and blue as a crust of frost on the shore. Heat thrums in my cheeks. “We talked for five minutes and I was trying to—to pick you apart!”

I shake my head, laughing. “Trust me, you won’t get under my skin. I don’t let go of _real_ secrets easily.”

“Biggest lie I’ve ever heard,” she scoffs. “What about your mother? The truce?”

“Don’t overthink it,” I suggest.

“That’s all I _can_ do!” she retorts, running a hand through her hair and tugging on the knots. I can feel that she’s hovering between running and—

“Then don’t think at all.” Before I can think better of it, before she can argue again, I reach out to touch her arm, a question and not a demand. I don’t know what I’m asking—I don’t think I could put it into words. It’s nothing that can be spoken; more like she’s the moon, and I’m the sea, being pulled out of shape by the sheer force of her. The most natural, dangerous thing in the world.

She gives me a wild look, then grabs the ties of my coat and pulls me into a fierce, reckless kiss. _We’ll destroy each other. This is a mistake._ Her low words echo in my head like thunder as I hold tight to her, fingers tangling in her hair, a frisson rushing up my back as she runs her own hands through mine, feeling the deck shift under my feet, until I’m finally tossed into the waves below. _Good. I don’t care._


	2. The Mask of the Green Orc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A mere month later, I'm back with another one-shot for Spookstober. This one's for Fiyr and Samn. It contains as few spoilers as I could manage, but it might give hints as to certain events at the end of Land of Silence. You've been warned... *dramatic violin screech* ok enjoy

Smoke wicks off the flame of the candle as I hold the wax aloft.

The black strip is glowing, but I lift it from the flame before it has a chance to get hot enough to burn, then paste it across my forehead. It’s sticky and immediately attaches itself to my eyebrows, giving me the distinct feeling that pulling it off is going to mean living a few months with no brows at all. The monstrous reflection in the hand-glass that I’ve arranged on the vanity makes me laugh. I look even angrier than normal. _ No, no having fun, Samn, _ I lecture myself.  _ Serious mission. It’s Fiyr’s fault you’re not going to be around for the first Fallenstar’s Night where Faern’s actually able to stay up late enough to welcome in the new year. _ Well… not Fiyr’s fault, exactly. Maybe it  _ is _ his, but more importantly, the queen doesn’t trust him to deal with what’s becoming known as The Situation in Centella, and so she called in the cavalry.

And I guess I’m the whole cavalry, because I’m currently alone in the room I rented for a single night on Thundria’s coppers.

I heat another slab of black wax and pat it onto my cheek, creating an exaggeratedly protruding cheekbone. The same is done to the other side, then I apply a thick coat of oily green paint. My plan had been orc, but my face has become more of an ‘indeterminate swamp creature.’ Which is… fine.

I peer into the cloudy glass. My eyes look very dull, almost gray, compared to the fresh-clover-green of my face, but I don’t have access to the sort of Shodawes cosmetics that might have made this costume worth anything with yellow eyes and scraggly black hair; just whatever I could scrounge from the street-sellers without drawing too much attention.

The queen didn’t exactly give me a mandate to be invisible, but in all honesty, I don’t want Fiyr to  _ know _ that she doesn’t trust him to do his job. It’s hardly any job at all; more ceremonial than anything. Maybe not this year, but… Centella was always one of the more superstitious lot and it’s a bit of a Thundrian habit to send someone down to assure the villagers that Thundrian knights will be on call to rush in and fend off the fanged demons coming to snatch their children.

This time, though, the worry is that ‘fanged demons’ (read: power-hungry brothers, or perhaps distant cousins) will attack the newly-posted governor and pass it off as the will of the spirits that veered too close to the border between worlds on Fallenstar’s Night.

I’m not worried about spirits. I’m worried about villagers with newly sharpened dinner knives, Fiyr finding out that the queen doesn’t trust him to do Thundria’s easiest job, and this green-black wax falling off my face in the middle of the celebration.

The latter two will probably happen simultaneously, if I’m honest.

I spent the morning on the shore of the Rivien sea, as close to Centella as I could be without arousing suspicion, making the sand under the frigid water do grand feats that went completely unnoticed by everyone, including myself. A somewhat stupid plan to exhaust my life-force and dampen my trace, and an excellent plan to burn a morning waiting for the Centella Fallenstar’s Night celebration to begin. I’m not exactly  _ excited _ … more apprehensive, but I  _ am  _ curious about what kind of festivities the villagers partake in for kingdom holidays. They’ve already taken a suspiciously Shodawes approach, from everything I’ve seen: candles in every doorway, everyone stocking up on garish make-up and costumes, and gold and red leaves bundled together in artful arrangements that will doubtlessly be rotting within days. I appreciate the ubiquity of maple-beer filled gourds, though. That will make tonight go by quicker, with any luck.

It’s got to be almost dark outside. The days have shortened with the passing season, and I ate quickly earlier in the pub. There’ll be more food at the governor’s party, but I have a feeling I should stay away. If someone tries to poison the governor, I don’t want to end up on the floor vomiting up pumpkin-mash and tarts, and in any case, I need to stay sharp. To steer clear of Fiyr, at least.  _ And protect the governor from all those evil spirits that will be clawing their way out of the Blacklands to gnaw on his bones. Or just the regular kind of evil in-laws. _

__ I stand, giving my face make-up a last look in the glass. A ghoulish green face stares back, utterly foreign.  _ Nice. _ I’ve got a rough black woolen cloak shrouding nearly my entire body, beneath which are neutral plain-clothes. Fiyr will look right through me, with any luck.

I leave the inn without acknowledging the patrons that are beginning a Fallenstar’s Night party of their own. A man, already drunk, lurches into me and I dart back, before slipping out the door. He has splatters of black paint on his face that… might be intended to imitate a spider? Or perhaps its web? This holiday is irritating, I decide. The sooner this night is over, the better off I’ll be.

By the time I approach the house of the governor (identical to the others, just sized up a little) I’m pretty sure I’m  _ un _ fashionably late. Two villager guards stand outside. One tosses up something round and glittering, catches it, then crows with victory as the other begins to sulk.  _ Stuck on a job you don’t want? I can understand that. _

“Evening,” I rasp to the one on the left, affecting a lower voice.  _ Dumbass, they have no idea who you are. You don’t need a whole new identity, just a name. _ “I’m…”  _ And… what fake name did I tell the queen to put down…? _ “Samnhain…”

The guard blinks, then fishes a list out of his pocket. Stares at it. Then unrolls it. I make awkward eye-contact with his companion as the first guard parses the mysteries of the written word.

“Right. Uh, yeah, go on in, Mr. Samnhain.”

I give them a quick nod, feeling more than a little out of place. Guard number one’s curious stare follows me up the cobblestone path to the porch, then through the door. I’m greeted immediately by a reedy boy in Centella cobalt and Thundrian green, uncostumed.

“Samnhain?” he asks, taking in my costume with wide eyes. He can’t be much more than seventeen, being that shrimp-like. “You’re… um, the  _ other one? _ ”

His stage whisper should be loud enough for everyone in the entryway to hear, but no one is in the entryway, and the deafening sounds of a villager musical group pulses through a hallway I’m assuming leads to the banquet hall. I cringe anyway.   
“Yes.” The raspy voice helps hide it.

“O-okay,” he stammers. “Yeah. Um. So. You can… come with me, the party’s just down the hall. My father—er, the governor is at the head of the table. So. If anyone’s gonna try to attack him or something… they’ll be up there too, I think.”

I can’t help raising a waxen eyebrow.  _ I guess I can cross ‘scheming sons’ off the list of potential attackers. _

“You don’t think anyone will actually hurt him? Right?”

“Of course not; he’s fine, and even if anyone tries anything I’ll throw them out of your house on their ear,” I promise. He looks comforted.  _ That’s a good expression. Not too violent. Keep-able promise. A little intimidating. Besides, ‘I’ll jam a bagful of sand down their throat’ doesn’t sound too impressive. And I brought a dagger specifically so I wouldn’t have to show off my life-force… in the event that there’s an actual assassination attempt. Which definitely won’t happen. _

“Thank you. And thank Thundria and Her Majesty, Queen Bluelianna Star, long-may-she-reign,” he whispers automatically, then withdraws to the doorway to greet anyone even later than I was.

My lips quirk into a smile, probably a fearsome sight with the whole orc-face situation, then I turn and move down the corridor and into the main hall.

It’s an impressively large room. At least as big as the Thundrian dining hall, though on closer examination it looks more like three rooms of this house with very large, arching doorways, cleared of their furnishings in order to fit a massive banquet table through. The table itself takes up much of the room, though there’s a swath of carpeted stone at each end, and some on the edges where I see clusters of villagers drinking, laughing, and admiring each others’ disguises. A few gazes swing my way as I clomp through the entrance at one end of the table, but they quickly turn their attention back to their mugs of spiced cider and maple-beer, and their conversation partners.

_ I need to find the governor. _

The room is almost hazy with the presence of countless villagers, candles, and steaming trays of food, though through it all I can see a man, just as reedy as his son, seated at the head as I had expected. He wears an autumn crown of black thorn with leaves jewelled in vibrant citrine, amber, and ruby that catch the light of the braziers arranged around the room. I pause my movement toward the table, studying what I can see of him. His cheeks are as ruddy as the leaves that stud his headpiece, likely from drink, and he speaks animatedly to the younger woman at his side.  _ Great. Jealous spouse, possibly…? Or a spurned lover who thinks she deserves a share of Centella’s power? I’ll keep an eye on her. _

I shift closer to the table— _ Could I get a seat close to him? _ —then remember the other part of this.  _ And where’s Fiyr? _ I rake my gaze over the crowd, but with all the red leaves, deep orange pumpkins, and general plethora of ginger-haired people, I’m left empty-handed. The Trace is equally fruitless; the trace of a villager might fall away when stacked against that of a knight’s, but with this many villagers packed together, and the fact that Fiyr’s trace is somewhat sweet as well… it’s like looking for a carrot in a stack of… carrots. Carrots that are less life-force adept.  _ Metaphors were a bad idea. Well, I don’t need to know exactly where he is, as long as my costume hides me well enough, I’ll be fine. _

__ My cheek is itchy. I try to ignore it.

_ So. Governor’s not in immediate danger, can’t find Fiyr… _ I stare blankly at the crowd.  _ Well, this is going to be a boring four hours. _

...

He’s watching the governor.

I squeeze through the crowd, still keeping a healthy distance from the cloaked stranger. He arrived maybe half an hour ago, long enough after most people that I’m a little worried about the lives of the guards playing flirty coin-toss outside, and he’s made no effort to mingle with the other villagers or get himself a mug of beer from the near-overflowing-pumpkins that line the table. His mask-like cosmetics are ostentatious enough to, ironically,  _ not _ draw too much attention, but his clothing is remarkably plain. Everyone else in the room is at least in fine-clothes, if not outright feather-and-fur covered animal costumes or terrifying monster-masks. It makes me wonder what’s under that black cloak.

_ Hmm. _

I slip into a circle of villagers with a mug in hand, pausing to pick up the thread of conversation so I can join.

“Daven looks like a king!” one woman exclaims, waving a heavy arm expressively. “I wonder where he found that  _ crown _ .”

_ Daven. That’s the governor, right? _ I take another look at the villager woman.  _ Then she knows him, or half the town is on first-name basis with the governor himself. _

“He won’t be scaring away any spirits in that get-up,” I remark, giving the woman a conspiratorial wink. She lets out an uproarious laugh and the others follow suit, turning warm gazes on me.  _ She has a degree of power, then…? Well, if they think I’ve got her approval, maybe… _ I pick one of the younger men that clusters around her, ready to vie for her attention when the amusement ebbs and touch his arm.

“Hi!” His eyes glitter in the light as he turns to me and for a moment I can’t breathe.

_ Graie. _

“Er… did you want something?” He cocks his head and the spell’s broken. His nose is too narrow, hair too dark, skin too pale. And dressed in a shawl of black feathers. I move on with my plan before he reminds me of any other friends I’ve left behind.

_ Get a grip! _ “Oh! Uh, yeah, would you…” I pause, gathering back up my scheme. “See that guy in the orc mask?”

I point out the stranger. The boy nods.

“We’re old friends, and every time we get into a party like this… it’s a bit of a tradition to pull pranks,” I tell him, lowering my voice and inclining my head a bit to him. He drinks it in, relishing the prospect of being part of a stranger’s plan. “I told him not to wear that stuffy cloak and he insisted, so…” I pause to grin, and though he hasn’t heard the punchline, my villager of choice mirrors the expression. His grin is much sharper than Graie’s goofy smile.  _ Focus.  _ “Will you take this and…  _ trip _ near him?”

I press the mug into his hands and he takes it, eyes alight.

“Yeah! Yeah, he’ll  _ never _ know what hit him.”

_ I’m counting on it. _ He gives me a little salute and he darts into the crowd with the mug cradled between his hands, a man on a mission.

I toss another comment into the ring of the important woman and the others just in case the stranger’s watching, then shift my gaze back over to them. The stranger is staring at the light fixtures now, contemplating the flame.  _ Planning a fire-based assassination attempt? That would be pretty funny. Shouldn’t use my life-force, though… an outburst in a crowded room of villagers would be disastrous. _

I watch as the black-feathered-back of the boy disappears into the shuffle of people and I admire his ability to move through the crowd quickly without shoving past anyone. It reminds me of a day in a farmer’s market with a friend.  _ I wonder what they do for Fallenstar’s Night in Rivier... _

Then he trips.

It’s almost beautiful, watching the amber juice fly in a perfect arc, plummeting onto that cloak in a staccato of  _ splosh-splosh-splosh _ , practically in time with the skipping music on the other side of the room. For good measure, my new ally gently lobs the wooden tankard at him as well, which bounces off. The stranger whirls, a glint of silver at his wrist— _ Left-handed, good to know _ —and then looks down at the tankard lying at his feet. His expression is unreadable both from my distance and the apparent half ounce of green paint on his face, but when he looks up again, my raven conspirator has vanished back into the crush of villagers.

_ Perfect. _

__ It would be a nice bonus if the stranger decides to ditch the cloak so I could get a read on his body type and musculature, but my main objectives are achieved.  _ He’s not paying much attention to his surroundings, so either overconfident or underpaid, plus he’s left-handed, potentially weak on the right, and he’s got a concealed blade in either his sleeve or one of the folds of that cloak. He moves fast when he does notice, though, so maybe overconfident. That’s some fast blade-work. _

__ I’m sure  _ Fireheart _ ’s a match, but I take a steadying breath anyway. _ You can definitely take some villager goon with a knife. _ I cast my gaze toward the governor again; his daughter stands, moving into the crowd, and his wife who was thus far flitting about the party takes her seat next to him for the first time this evening.

And the stranger’s on the move again.

I brace, ready to unsheathe  _ Fireheart _ , then begin to make my way through the crowd. It’s not as graceful as my earlier ally, but adrenaline thrums in my veins from the actual potential of some action tonight.  _ Everyone said this was just busywork! Maybe the governor’s actually at risk… _

I adjust my mask as I go; I picked a red-bark forest spirit mask. Paired with my lengthened red hair and forest-green garb, I feel more like an elf.  _ Well, good. Be as quick and dangerous as an elf, disarm the man and get the governor and his family to safety. _ I eye up the stranger again as he travels closer to the head of the table.  _ Huh, that paint is  _ really _ something.  _ Closer, though, it’s actually his eyes that give me pause. It’s hard to pick out colour with a big table and a half-dozen villagers between us, but they burn like coals in the torchlight. I falter.

_ It’s not a real spirit. Being in Centella for too long is making me crazy. _ But the stranger moves a little  _ too  _ gracefully, recalling my fading memories of my brush with an actual elf on my first day in the Thundrian forests. I can almost imagine that there’s nothing under that cloak at all, just air and evil laughter. _ Okay, you’ve officially lost it. _

Still, the calculated, smooth way he walks between villagers only heightens my alertness.  _ He can fight, I bet. But  _ I’m _ trained. _ My heartbeat thumps in my ears; it’s so hot in here, as if I can feel everyone’s revelry buzzing in the air. My cheeks feel fever-warm.

He nears the governor again. I break into a dash, shoving my way between groups until I swing around the governor’s chair. The stranger’s head snaps up and I don’t have time to gulp at seeing the horrifying goblin-face up close before I pull back and swing a clumsy right-hook at him. It’s not the instant knock-out strike I was hoping for.

My knuckles smear with waxy green colouring as the stranger recoils, disoriented, then retaliates with a devastating gut-punch. I gasp for air— _ Yes, just as graceful and quick as an elf _ —then grab him before he can get out whatever sleeve-blade he has.

We tumble to the ground, thrashing like fish dropped on a dock, and I grab at his shoulders, hoping I can get him under me to smack his head against the floor and finish this. Just as I feared, though, he’s been well-trained and twists out of my grip, before kneeing me  _ hard _ in the stomach again. It’s lucky I didn’t have much to drink out of the mug that was spilled on him, or vomit would have been added to the collection of gunk on his face.

I’m gasping for breath again as he hauls me to my feet.  _ Not a fan of brawling on the floor? _ The sudden change in orientation makes me almost dizzy, but luckily, I recover in time to be thrown directly onto the table in front of the governor. My face hits something soft and gooey. My mask protects me from the worst of it, but my uncovered mouth and chin get a healthy layer of creamy cake.

_ Good. This is very dignified. This will earn their respect. _

I’m eyeballs deep in cheesecake when I hear the telltale slide of metal-on-sheath.  _ I knew he had a knife! _ I surge backward, stumbling as I rip myself free of his grasp and spew out crumbs and cake, then whip out my own sword in time to block a lightning-fast blow. I can judge from the pressure on  _ Fireheart  _ that he lacks the strength behind his blow that could end this.  _ Left-handed, _ I remember, then hurl the knife off my sword hard enough that his arm is flung back with it.

He keeps his grip on the knife even as his arm goes swinging backward, and knowing I can’t afford to miss this opportunity, I use my off-hand to jab his upper arm as hard as I can. His shoulder is pushed back and he's forced to adopt a fighting stance as if he were wielding a sword in his right hand. From the blow to his shoulder, I see those coal-bright eyes flick to his arm to see if I’ve sliced him open.  _ Distracted. _ I stab with  _ Fireheart _ , hoping to at least scare him with the prospect of injury long enough to incapacitate.

He blocks with a parry so precise that—

_ Hey, wait a minute, isn’t that from Lieting— _

__ And then before my brain can catch up, his other hand grasps my wrist, pressing on the inside of my wrist with precision, and slides  _ Fireheart  _ out of my hand. I can only gape as he raises my true-steel sword in his right hand, the supposedly  _ weaker _ hand, and keeps the dagger aloft in the other.

_ Just my Starlaxi-damned luck to meet two— _

__ And he plows the hilt into my chin so hard I’m unconscious before I hit the ground.

... 

“ _ Ow _ ,” is the first thing Fiyr says when he comes to.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He blinks and sits up in Governor Daven’s guest bed. Then his eyes widen comedically. “The governor!”

“Present and accounted for,” Daven promises from the chair next to me. His son, on usher duty last night, is in training to be an apothecary, Daven cheerily explained to me over Fiyr’s body, and was coaxed by his father into delivering some speedy, if a little nervous, medical attention to the out-cold-Fiyr. Alder sits next to his father as well, though he hops to his feet when he sees that Fiyr’s conscious again.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.  _ Don’t laugh, Samn. You promised yourself you wouldn’t laugh. _

“Samn? Did you…” He winces. “There was… there was a guy, he was a green. I mean, his  _ face _ was green and he had a  _ knife _ .”

I press my lips tightly together. I might have managed a more somber expression if he'd woken up last night, when I pulled the punch-happy, elf-costumed stranger's mask off to reveal that I just knocked the love of my life out cold. Unfortunately for both of us, I explained what had happened to the governor quite quickly, we moved Fiyr into the guest room, and the governor made a last toast for his party. Alder checked him over, pronounced him possibly concussed but probably fine, and then I had hours to reflect on how absurd the entire situation was.

“I’m safe,” Daven assures Fiyr, shooting me a look as a long, sharp stream of squeaky air escapes me. “Uh… Alder and I will give you a minute. Shall we?”

He stands and beckons his son. The moment they’re gone, a tear slips over my beetroot-red cheek.

“Let it out,” Fiyr grumbles.

I wail with laughter until the last oil from the green paint has been washed away by tears and I’m nearly choking on my own chuckles.

“I know. Busywork, and I failed spectacularly.”

“It depends on your point of view,” I rasp, trying to clear my throat of the dregs of my fit. “Ahem. I… The governor is alive. Whether you… subdued any threats to him…”

“Who was that guy?” Fiyr scowls. “He was an ambidex, too. And fucking  _ fast _ , blessed Starlaxi.”

“As well as astonishingly handsome, brilliantly intelligent, and still able to exploit the predictable fight style you’ve had since you were twelve,” I fill in.

He stares blankly at me.

_ Go easy on the guy who just got clocked in the head, _ I lecture myself.  _ It’s your fault he’s probably got a splitting headache.  _ “It was me, you cheesecake. The queen sent me in as back-up.”

“ _ What?! _ ”

I nod.

“But—you were all—”   
I nod.

“You had a knife! And you were—why the fuck were you dressed like—where did you get that paint? Why were you—”

I wait.

“Wow. So you were protecting him too?” He leans back in his pillow, shaking his head. “I guess I need to practice my swordwork.”

_ Not a bad take-away. _ “You do. And I need to wash this cloak. Some drunk crow spilled a tankard on me.”

“Er, I put him up to it,” Fiyr confesses, cracking a grin.   
“What? Did you pay him?”

“No, I just… talked him into it.”

I’m the one staring blankly at him this time. “Well, that’s a trick I’ll have to learn.”

“And also ‘how to not look like the creepiest motherfucker ever at parties,’” Fiyr suggests.

“Can it, carrot—I kept the governor safe from your sloppy swings, didn’t I?”

“You wound me,” he says, clutching his chest then moving his hands to his head. “Ah! I actually get to say that now. I think I’m slightly concussed.”

“We’ll get Cindra to have a look.”

“Can we… not tell her how this happened.”

“No, that cheesecake story is staying in the family legends for generations to come. Oh, when your face just… the  _ sound _ it made. Like a wet thump, or maybe a spongy smoosh.”

He groans. "You'd kick a man while he's down?"

"I kneed you, actually."

“Well, I’m sure you can polish the cheesecake story.” He shakes his head. “And I’ll tell them you were so awkward at a party that I thought you were planning to murder the most important person in Canella.”

“Centella.”

“I have a compassion, can’t I have some concussion?”

“Er… let’s get you back to the castle, eh?”


End file.
